


I Cross My Heart and I Hope to Die

by Sundance201



Category: Parade's End - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundance201/pseuds/Sundance201
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a whiskey or two at Macmaster's, Christopher stumbles his way into Sylvia's room.  She can't turn him away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After becoming completely consumed with feelings for Christopher and Sylvia, this little idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. Hope that you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Absolutely nothing you recognize belongs to me. The title is from the Maroon 5 song "One More Night."

_“One day, after a whiskey or two…he must want to, sometimes.”  
“Why! You’re soppy about him.”_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

She hears the door slam and sighs. This is later than usual for him to be home from Macmaster’s but she tries not to pay any mind. It’s not as if she has anything to worry about when it comes to infidelity – no, as far as Christopher is concerned, that is wholly her territory. She listens to him come down the hall and she expects to hear him step into his bedroom and shut the door, but much to her surprise, he keeps walking down the hall. Sliding a bookmark into her book, she sets it aside and watches the hallway curiously through her open door. 

He stops short of entering her room and stands in the door way, leaning against the frame. “Christopher? Are you alright?” she asks, a hint of actual concern in her eyes. 

He stumbles down the step into her room and she smirks. Her ox of a husband, her paragon of virtue, is without a doubt drunk. He sinks down heavily onto the stool at her vanity and looks up at her. “I had my normal amount of whiskey at Macmaster’s but I neglected to account for how little I've eaten today,” he says, his words still fairly crisp, despite the influence of the alcohol. 

“Well at least you managed to stumble into your own flat instead of someone else’s, even if you did miss your bedroom,” she replies, her fingers toying with the edge of her comforter. She wishes suddenly that she had put on one of her nice nightgowns, one of the silken ones in the peach color that he used to be so fond of. She would have if she had any idea that Christopher would have stumbled his way into her room tonight.

“I stumbled into exactly where I wanted to be, Sylvia. My wife’s bedroom.” Something in his tone, in his eyes, lights a fire in her belly that she had thought had been doused for good. He stays sitting on the stool and she realizes that he’s waiting for her to make a move. Still a gentleman then, even when drunk. 

She thinks about sending him away, letting him suffer as she suffers. But she thinks back to the first few years of their marriage and how nice it was to sleep beside him and how much she wants him, even if it is against her better judgment. Silently, she scoots over and then holds the covers up, a clear invitation to him. 

He slowly stands and his fingers go to the buttons on his shirt. He must have discarded his jacket in the dining room and his tie hangs loose from his collar, fluttering between his unbuttoned waistcoat. For a drunk man, his fingers are surprisingly nimble as he discards his shirt. He’s about to climb into bed when she notices he still has his shoes and belt on. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Christopher, can’t you even undress yourself? Surely you remember how this works!” she exclaims in frustration. 

And rather than becoming wounded and leaving, Christopher chuckles. It’s brief, but it’s there and Sylvia, quite without her conscious consent, feels a surge of love for her husband. He sinks down on the edge of the bed and is untying his shoes when Sylvia decides for herself that this is definitely happening. She silently pulls off her nightgown and tosses it to the floor and drags the comforter up to her chest. She doesn't want to overwhelm him, after all. 

Without her having to ask, he strips down to his drawers, still taking the time to carefully fold his trousers and place them on top of his shoes that he moves to the foot of the bed. He climbs underneath the covers, apparently oblivious to the fact that his wife is naked beside him. Sylvia rolls her eyes. “Christopher,” she murmurs lowly, in a voice that used to drive Potty wild, “I think you should turn down the lamp now.”

He leans over silently and does as she asks, before settling back down in the bed. He turns to her and she can just barely see his face, illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window. She always leaves the curtains open. She moves towards him and he gasps when her hand touches his bare chest. One of his hands lands on her hip and she is beyond pleased when she feels his fingers tighten as he realizes she is naked. 

He makes a move as if to draw back and Sylvia’s hand flies to his shoulder, keeping him in place. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers. Surprisingly, he complies, his hand returning to her hip. She scoots closer to him, pressing her body fully up against his and indulging in the moan that he lets loose. 

Christopher Tietjens, undone. She’ll dream about this for years to come.

The hand on his shoulder trails down his chest until it’s pressed against his cloth covered erection. She huffs in frustration at the impediment and quickly pulls them down, allowing him to kick them off and certainly losing them within the sheets. Her hand wraps around flesh the next time and he hisses, his hand going to the back of her neck and pulling her close for a kiss. 

She strokes and twists and pumps her hand mercilessly. She wants him to suffer the sweetest agony, wants to leave him with a memory that he won’t soon forget. She’s not a fool. She knows that this is a one-off and tomorrow at breakfast he will be unable to look at her and next week when he heads off to Macmaster’s he will have a gigantic lunch beforehand. 

So she intends to torture and titillate him as much as she possibly can tonight.

“Oh I have missed this, Christopher,” she whispers against his lips, smiling as his heavy breath puffs against her face. “Do you think about this? About the train?”

“Occasionally,” he replies and she nearly stops. It’s not as much of a victory as a ‘yes’ would have been, but it’s not the crushing defeat of a ‘no.’ She supposes she’ll take what she can get. She twists her hand at the top of his erection, her thumb brushing against the sensitive underside of his cock. She almost laughs and nearly says the word aloud, if only to witness his reaction to such a vulgarity. 

But suddenly Christopher seizes her waist and practically growls at her, rolling her beneath him and dislodging her hand. He kisses her, hard and rough, so unlike the gentle Christopher of their early marriage. She revels in it, in finally cracking through his exterior. She shuts her eyes and tries to imprint every glorious moment into her memory. A hand comes up to squeeze her breast and it’s honestly a bit like being pawed at by an animal, but she loves it. She moans and arches into him, hooking a leg around his thigh and pulling him close. 

Christopher thrusts inside her and it stings quite a bit, but she thinks that she might love the pain. Masochism is the word she’s looking for, the word that defines this exquisite pleasure in the pain. She moans again and drags her fingernails down his back; she’s sure that she’s leaving marks. She wants it that way. She wants him to put on his shirt tomorrow and wince and think of her, like this.

His head falls to her shoulder as he presses sloppy kisses to the skin there and something within Sylvia breaks. His angle changes slightly and he starts rubbing against her core, driving her crazy. She cries out his name as she rides out her release, her first in such a very long time. She hasn't even touched herself since she’s returned to Christopher. 

It only takes Christopher a few moments to reach his peak as well. As Sylvia feels his seed filling her, she wonders what would happen if they were to conceive a child. She hadn't taken any precautions against it…it was always a possibility. She shakes her head, as if to clear it of the thought before it even fully forms. 

Christopher rolls off of her and she can’t help but feel the coldness. She always hates this part. She hates separating and having everything be over and done with, just like that. Especially this time, because she knows that more than likely, it won’t happen again anytime soon. Christopher will see to that.

Part of her wants to turn her back on him, ignore him until he picks up his clothes and goes back to his room. But his fingertips run down her arm gently and she can’t help but turn towards him. She curls around him as she used to, her palm resting on his chest. 

His breathing evens out and she can tell that he’s fast asleep. She stays awake for a little bit longer, watching him by the moonlight and torn between wanting to smother him with a pillow and holding on to him so that he never leaves.


	2. Stay With You One More Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvia comes to see Christopher in France about a very different personal matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that this particular story was a one-shot, but then the premise for this chapter got stuck in my head and wouldn't leave me alone. I hope that it isn't too wildly out of character! This chapter definitely takes this story into firm AU territory. Right now, there aren't any plans for any further chapters. 
> 
> Happy reading!

She’s left the door between their rooms open. He sleeps peacefully, so different from the last time, when he’d awaken her with his screams and groans from his nightmares. She’s nearly done with her nightly routine and has nearly given up hope of speaking with Christopher when she hears a knock on his door and listens to him get up to answer it. 

“What is it?” she calls out, twisting off the cap of her powder and swirling the puff into the powder before dabbing some on. 

“Draft’s been brought forward. I have to be at the camp at 4:30,” he says. She can hear him moving towards her room and forces herself to remain calm. He stands at the threshold and she notices that he pauses for a moment, watching her powder her collarbone. He almost turns back, but then he takes a step inside and she can’t help but feel a small lick of victory. 

She puts away her powderpuff and pulls her dressing gown back up on her shoulder. “It’s ridiculous that a man of your ability should be at the beck and call of the lot of gargoyle old fools like the ones downstairs.” She twists in her seat at the vanity. “You shouldn’t be here at all. You’re not fit.”

“No one posted to a base depot is fit. That’s why we’re here,” he says bitterly, resignation clear in every movement as he sags against the end of the bed. He takes a deep breath and she can tell that he’s about to ask her why she’s really here. She knows that Mark was as vague as possible in his letter – she read it on the train.

“I’m pregnant,” Sylvia says casually, as if discussing the weather or the cutlet she had for dinner. She stands and lets her dressing gown fall away, leaving her only in her nightgown. The soft silk skims across her figure, draping over her small belly nicely. 

“What?” Christopher blinks rapidly and then rubs his forehead, as if he’s certain that he’s still asleep.

“Oh please, Christopher, the blast addled your mind but I know perfectly well that your hearing is fine,” she snaps at him. His face falls and she swallows, looking away guiltily.

“And it’s…it’s…” He can’t even get the words out of his mouth. Nothing so disrespectful can actually leave his lips. But she knows what he’s asking. She scoffs and rolls her eyes. 

“Of course it’s yours. And it’s absolutely beastly of you to even think otherwise.” She tries to hide the hurt on her face, but Christopher catches a glimpse of it anyway. Her jaw tightens and she shrugs, trying to look collected. “I haven’t been with another man in five years, Christopher. Not since Perowne...sweet old Potty.” She smirks when Christopher’s lip twitches at the other man’s name. 

“I’m keeping it,” she says, a certain finality in her voice. “I want it. It’s more boring than you can imagine in that flat – and I know that you have a wealth of rather boring information stored away in your head.” He cracks a small smile at that and she can’t help but return it. “Mother is coming to stay in the flat to keep me company.”

He shakes his head. “No, no it isn’t nearly big enough for you, your mother, and a baby.” He sucks in a breath. “Go to Groby,” he says, before he loses his nerve. “Send for Michael. You should have plenty of space there. And Michael should get to know his sibling.”

She nods, trying to keep her smile small and demure instead of victorious. “Mark won’t approve. He’s given you his advice in that letter – I believe the words ‘divorce the bitch’ made an appearance.”

“Mark can hang,” he said, the most vicious that she’s ever heard him. “He has no care for Groby. And I wish for my family to take up residence there.”

Sylvia’s smile is either one of triumph or of actual happiness. She herself isn’t sure which emotion is the dominant one. She nods and swallows, taking a deep breath. “I thought we could get names squared away. In case you don’t return from this ghastly war. Or in case you abandon us for your mistress.” The words are out almost before she even realizes that she’s said them. 

Christopher frowns. “I have no mistress, Sylvia.” 

“That’s not what everyone says,” she replies, pressing still, even though she honestly doesn’t want to know if Christopher is sleeping with someone else. Not when he’s right in front of her – it burns too much to even consider. 

“Well you, of all people, know how the gossips work. It’s all nonsense.”

She shrugs, seeming to let it drop. “I was thinking if it is a girl, we can name her after your mother.” Christopher can’t hide his shock and Sylvia laughs. “The woman hated me. I think she’d be absolutely appalled if I did something so good as to name my daughter after her.” Christopher can’t deny it, so he simply shakes his head and looks down, hiding his small grin from her. Sylvia sees it anyway. “And if it’s a boy…we can name him after your father, if you’d like.”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. My father turned his back on me which is something that I would never do to my child.”

She nods and purses her lips, looking away, unsure of what to say next. They sit in silence for a few more moments, until Christopher suddenly shakes his head and jumps up from the bed. “Sylvia, what in God’s name were you thinking – traveling to a war zone while you’re in such a delicate condition?” His hands skim over her arms, as if checking her over for injuries that he has not yet noticed. 

Sylvia laughs and she can tell Christopher expects her to push him away. But she doesn’t. “I’m with child, Christopher. I’m not ill.” His hands drop away but he doesn’t move from her side. She shrugs. “I wanted to make sure that you’d believe me, I suppose. Mark certainly doesn’t. I swear, this child could come out and be the spitting image of you and I still don’t think that he’d believe that you were the father. As it is, I don’t think he believes there’s a child at all. He thinks it’s a scheme…to make you suffer.”

Now that he thinks about it, Christopher realizes that Sylvia has worn dresses that concealed her small belly since she’d arrived. The waistlines had been higher than they usually were and the dresses were slightly more conservative than that usual fashions that she favored. But now, in her sleeping attire, it is impossible to deny. “It’s rather difficult to fake this,” she says, pointedly looking down at her gently protruding stomach.

Christopher’s gaze drops there as well and his hand moves towards it before he even realizes fully what he’s doing. He looks up at her right before he makes contact, his hand hovering over her. She nods and grabs his hand, pressing it to her bump. He caresses her belly gently and she remembers the last time she was with child, she barely let him touch her. 

“I’m sorry that you felt the need to come all this way. I would have been more than happy to settle this matter from afar,” he says. She understands the subtext immediately. Christopher trusts that she wouldn’t have lied about this – he trusts her over his own brother. She tries to ignore the warmth that blossoms within her at that revelation. 

She laughs and tries to be blasé. “It gave me something to do.” Christopher smiles at her and she finds herself smiling back. “And a part of me wanted to make sure you were still in one piece. I haven’t received any sort of correspondence from you since you went off.”

Christopher actually looks rather ashamed. He glances down and away from her, his hand still resting on her belly. “I’ve been busy.” 

Sylvia nods. “It’s next to impossible to compose a letter here anyway – one can hardly hear oneself think.” 

He chuckles and bobs his head in agreement. His hands finally leave her belly and Sylvia expects him to move away, but instead he glides his hands up and down her arms and then they move to the small of her back. She looks up, keeping eye contact with him as he slowly tilts his head down, as if daring him to continue on with his actions. 

Their lips meet and Sylvia finally allows her eyes to close. His touch is so light that she has to press back slightly to even feel his hands against her. He touches her like he’s afraid that she’ll break and she has to choke back her laughter against his lips. She can’t even remember a time when someone treated her as some fragile, precious thing. It had to have been before she could talk. 

But here he is, Christopher Tietjens, gentleman to the last, touching her as if she’s something soft and delicate. Something…someone loved. 

They separate and Sylvia slowly opens her eyes, her hand coming up to gently caress Christopher’s cheek. His eyes close and he lets out a soft sigh. He ducks his head against her neck, inhaling her scent deeply and Sylvia’s head drops back, allowing him more access to her. He presses a gentle kiss against her skin and then loosens his grip on her, stepping back slightly. Her eyes open and she can’t help but smile at him. “You should go hang up your uniform. It’ll get terribly wrinkled if you sleep in it,” she says cheekily. 

He shakes his head. “Sylvia, we shouldn’t.”

“Why not? A dozen men here are sharing their bed with their mistresses, why can’t you share your wife’s?”

He smirks, turning towards his own room. “Fine, but only because it’s your last night here. You will be back on the train tomorrow to London.”

“Yes sir,” she says sarcastically, firing off a salute that Christopher sees as he looks over his shoulder. Once he’s out of sight, Sylvia moves towards the outside door, remembering her words to Potty. Poor Potty Perowne.

Without hesitation, she turns the lock on the door. Let him find his own way to warm his bed tonight. Hers would be occupied by herself and her husband and their unborn child. Quite full. 

When Christopher comes back into the room, she’s already underneath the covers, waiting for him. Without hesitation, he moves to the other side of the bed and climbs in. Sylvia waits until he turns down his lamp before she moves close to him, tentatively putting her hand on his chest – just like she used to and as she did the last time he shared her bed. 

His hand comes up and curls around hers. She feels his lips pressed against the crown of her head briefly. “Good night, Sylvia.”

Her smile is bright and happy, comfortable in the fact that he can’t see her in the darkness. “Good night, Christopher.”


End file.
